


Behind the Mask

by Dallas



Series: Ice Dragon Oneshots [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Post - Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dallas/pseuds/Dallas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In essence we're all just waiting for that one person to come along and let us know it's safe to remove the mask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Mask

**Author's Note:**

> Masks play a big part in Harry Potter one way or another and I liked the idea of exploring that on many levels, hopefully that came across.

When she offers him her hand, he kisses it.  
  
The receiving line is long and she’s always rather detested them. It was one thing she and her sisters could always agree on. Standing at the door and welcoming guests formally as they arrived was nothing but tedious and there were very few occasions where she actually smiled. As a rule they didn’t wear their masks at the door. Lucius and Draco would don their masks once everyone had arrived, one never arrived late to a Malfoy function, and Narcissa would briefly disappear upstairs to change into a more lavish gown and return to the party with her face partially hidden. She preferred it that way. However, unlike their hosts each guest was welcomed with their masks firmly in place. It doesn’t make a difference when he steps in front of her. His eyes hold hers a moment longer and she finds herself drowning in those familiar dark eyes. They’re dark Black eyes. Not silver like Sirius but a deep chocolate colour like her sisters. Very few people would have such eyes and fewer still would recognise them. Hand in hand with the ginger locks, which fell to his shoulders in a rugged manner of their own accord, she knows it could be nobody else but him.  
  
She holds her hand out to him once he’s shaken hands with Draco - it’s a courtesy and nothing more. For a fleeting moment she wonders if he even knows how to respond. How many of these functions could he have possibly been to? In fact, come to think of it, he must have really climbed the ladder with his research if he was given one of the invitations sent to the sanctuaries they fund. The thought fades as he takes her hand, holding it just right unlike so many others of his generation, and bows low as he presses his lips to her knuckles. He lingers just long enough that she notices and Lucius clearly does not. She knows her husband would clear his throat and make a point of beginning to introduce himself to the guest to make him move on. Yet he’s still speaking with the man who had kissed her hand last.  
  
“An honour and a privilege, Madame Malfoy,” he says as he stands. There’s no hint of humour in his voice, it seems as though the words are one hundred percent genuine.  
  
The corner of her mouth curls up as she takes her hand back, studying him with a newfound curiosity. “I’m sure,” she says simply and notes a sparkle in his eyes, his lips twitching. He likely wants to say more but that’s not how this works. He doesn’t try to fight it, instead he moves on to shake hands with Lucius and she watches him for a moment before turning her attention to the next guest. Had she known Draco would invite so many people she would have worn more comfortable shoes.  
  
He dances with a number of the ladies in attendance, young and old alike.  
  
She sought him out the moment she had returned to the party, a pearl studded mask covering the top half of her face, and now she watches him accompanying another woman back to her chair. She thanks him for the dance with a kiss to his cheek and he grins. If there’s one thing that truly turns her on when it comes to Charlie Weasley it’s his grin. There’s nothing false about his smile, in fact it always seems infused with boundless enthusiasm and happiness. There was a time when she used to cringe, call such people hopeless and wait for the day they lose all reason to smile like that. Wait for the moment they lose their love of life, like she had once before. Yet there’s something about Charlie’s grin that makes her want to match it. She can almost feel her heart expanding in her chest when he turns and that grin is briefly directed at her. She wonders if he will ask her to dance with him. No, in all honesty, she hopes that he will. She’s noticed he takes particular interest in the women who sit or stand by themselves and go unnoticed by so many others. Like some sort of knight in shining armour he rescues them from their solitude and for a moment they are the only woman in the room, the only woman for miles.  
  
Her heart beats heavily against her chest as she realises he is indeed approaching her. It’s ridiculous, she tells herself. After all she’s in her mid forties now and her body should not be reacting to a barrel chest and an attractive smile like a hormonal teenager. Though as he stops in front of her she can’t help but notice the familiar masculine scent about him and she licks her lips before she can stop herself.  
  
“May I have this dance, my lady?” he holds out his hand to her, the other held behind his back, and for a moment she thinks she may have actually fallen asleep reading one of her romance novels. The barely noticeable pain from her corset suggests otherwise.  
  
“That depends entirely on your abilities,” she responds. Her hands remain folded neatly in front of her, as yet unwilling to take up his offer.  
  
He takes a step closer to her, enough to lower his voice and exclude the other guests but not quite enough to touch her. “I assure you I have never left a woman unsatisfied,” the corner of his mouth turns up only slightly, beyond that he is stoic.  
  
Behind her mask her eyebrow arches, the only reaction she allows despite a desperate urge to drag him away from the party to do unspeakable things. As she lets out a steady breath, she slides her fingers into his rough palm and tries desperately not to imagine if everything else about him is rough. “I’ll be the judge of that, Sir,” she states. “If you don’t mind?”  
  
His only response is that damned grin as he leads her onto the dance floor. By rights it should irritate her but it doesn’t. In fact, nothing about him does. She finds it odd. She’s been taught to think horrible things of the Weasley clan. The same things her Husband was taught and their Son. The Weasleys had become somewhat of a joke in Pureblood circles. And, for the life of her, in that moment she couldn’t imagine why.  
  
He leads her fluidly, his free hand moving to rest securely against her waist, and the rest of the party seems to fade into nothingness. Their timing is perfect as they dance around the ballroom. He speaks to her freely, twirling her around and making her laugh. It’s been too long since anyone has made her feel so open. She felt like she was being herself for the first time in years and he encouraged it. Whispered words as he pulled her close to him, saying anything and everything to make her laugh, and always as though he knew the reaction he would get from her. When the music stops she holds onto him, closing her eyes to savour the moment. Perhaps he won’t let her go and they’ll dance all night without a care for anyone else. Perhaps when she opens her eyes she’ll find they truly are the only people in the ballroom and he is all she has. Perhaps she’ll find she’s dreamt it all.  
  
Yet he steps back from her and bows slightly. It’s only right, there are others who wish to dance with her and it wouldn’t do to spend the entire evening with him. Only couples in varying stages of their courtship dominated one another’s dance cards. That’s what her Mother had told her when she was a child and as she feels his hand slip from her waist she knows he was taught the same thing. Warmth brushes past her ear and she realises she can hear him breathing, his lips so close to her skin.  
  
“Thank you, Narcissa,” he says softly.


End file.
